22 TIGER

'DON'T,' He said.

I suppose I'd moved.

He hadn't gone for his gun — I wouldn't have given him time. He'd just taken a step back.

'Don't do anything precipitate.'

He watched me steadily with his expressionless eyes.

My neck pulsed: I could feel it. The carotid artery on the left side was palpable as the pressure went up, as the rage came.

'You've got guts,' I said.

He shrugged slightly. 'You had to know some time.'

'You could have waited until there were other people around to protect you.' I studied his face with its smooth white skin and its perfectly regular features, its short nose and straight mouth, seeing it for an instant as it would have looked if I'd actually decided to turn it into a mess.

'Save me the melodrama,' he said thinly.

The voice of sanity. It's one of the things, in point of fact, that the director in the field is expected to do for his executive when a fuse blows or a wheel comes off. Keep the poor bastard sane.

But he wasn't doing it very well because I moved again and only just managed to stop short and if you think it was lack of control you don't know what it's like when you're carrying some half-dead objective to the frontier and a courier-rendezvous blows up in your face and takes the whole of the mission with it and you find out it was your own local control who set it up, you think I'm a bloody robot or something?

Besides, that wasn't all he'd done.

'Be careful,' he said. 'I'm your only hope of survival. Don't make things difficult for yourself.'

It wasn't all he'd done.

'Fane, did you have that thing put in the truck?'

He looked down, looked up again.

'Yes.'

I turned away and walked through the pale blue light and saw my shadow moving across the dirt floor, rippling over the debris as if I were walking under water, so there you are you see, I knew there'd been something wrong with this mission from the moment when they told me Ferris had refused it, and I should have known better than to let that bastard Croder set me up and set me running again — he almost got me killed the last time he ran me, in Moscow, I tell you that man simply does not care what he does to his executives providing they bring back the product.

Stink of fish in here..

He was still standing perfectly still, watching me. From this distance he could have shot me dead and I suppose that was why I'd turned and walked away from him; I wanted to know the future and this was the only way to find out, Russian roulette, yes, but that's part of our trade, we're used to it.

'Does that make you feel better?' he asked me.

Fane is quite bright. Don't underestimate him.

'You'd have probably missed.' I walked slowly back to him.

'No,' he said.

'You missed with that fucking bomb.'

He lifted an eyebrow. 'I wish you wouldn't take it quite so personally, Quiller.'

'Just natural reflex. It'll pass.'

I forget exactly which page it's on in the book, the dark blue one, the first one they make us read, Structure of Employment, but I remember what it says, we all do. It should be borne in mind at all times during Briefing and Clearance that you are considered to be expendable, and that at any given moment during the course of a mission it may be decided that in order to protect security or to accomplish the objective, your freedom, welfare or even life may be forfeit.

They lose quite a few of their recruits when they throw them that particular book in Norfolk — you can feel the draught. But there are substantial compensations to widows and so on, and some people feel it can't ever happen to them, while others get some kind of neurotic kick: the brink isn't enough, they like a sword over their heads as well.

'What went wrong?' Fane asked.

I stared at him. 'You don't know?'

'I mean with the bomb.'

'Oh. It's not the first time I've been near one.'

'You mean you sensed it?'

'Does it matter?'

'Yes. If that man didn't set things up properly, Croder will want to know.' The man I'd seen on the train.

'He did a good job.'

Fane had the grace to glance down. 'It was the only way I could arrange matters. London made a deal with the Kremlin from the start.'

'Before I was briefed and cleared?'

'Yes.'

'Bloody Croder for you.'

Fane looked up again. 'You know the system.'

Life may be forfeit, so forth. 'It doesn't mean I have to like Croder. What was the deal?'

'We don't need to go into that now.'

I stood close to him. 'This time I want to know.'

He shrugged, dropping his cigarette-end and putting his foot on it. 'Both sides needed the summit, urgently. The Soviets knew that the American public wouldn't allow the president to meet them in Vienna, after they'd sunk the Cetacea, so a cover-up was agreed on. It was the only way they could protect the summit, and the only way the US would go ahead with it: by demanding vital concessions in the resulting talks as a form of penalization for sinking the sub. But there was a risk.'

I 'Karasov.'

'Yes. The Soviets knew we'd listened to the tape, but that was destroyed now. Karasov was still alive, and might talk to the world media, a living witness to the Soviet's guilt. Again, the American people wouldn't let the president go to Vienna.'

Sound. Very slight sound.

'The Soviets didn't know where to find Karasov. He was our own sleeper. So it was agreed that the moment we had him in our hands we would let them know, and let them despatch him.'

'Kill him.'

In a moment: 'Yes.'

The snow on the roof, stressing it, making the slight sound.

Rationalize.

But I turned my head to the left. The right ear feeds aural input to the left hemisphere for logical analysis and I wanted to know more about the sound, and if it meant danger.

'He was, after all, a Russian,' Fane said. 'And a traitor.'

'And trusted us.'

He shrugged.

'Trusted us with his life.'

He gave a sigh. 'Northlight was set up to protect world peace.'

'So a few dead espions along the way don't count.'

'Of course not.'

'All right,' I said, 'I'll buy that.'

'Jolly good show.'

Tiger.

'But why did you want me out of the way?'

He lit another cigarette and blew out smoke. 'It wasn't quite like that.'

Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the warehouse of the night.

'What was it like, then?'

'We had to-'

Not a very big tiger but I put up an arm block as it sprang for me and bounced off and hit the floor with its ears back and its claws out and a sound of total menace going on in its throat like a distant police siren; I was quite impressed.

'Pussy, you old bastard, stop that noise.'

What surprised me most was that Fane had his gun out. Local directors aren't normally so nervous.

'I think you're over-reacting,' I told him, and he put it away. The cat hadn't actually meant to attack me — they don't do that, it's not their nature. It had wanted to reach the fish crates and I was in the way. You can't always tell what's going on in their minds but I suppose it thought we were in here to open up the crates and there'd be a chance of nefarious pillage — the thing was near death from starvation, the winter and everything, and the locals in this region wouldn't keep these things for pets, they'd prefer them deep fried.

'We had to flush Karasov,' Fane went on, 'and hand him over to the Soviets. They said they'd finish him off. That was the deal.'

'But you didn't trust them.'

'Of course not. Before they killed him they would have put him under implemented interrogation and got everything out of him — our Murmansk network and all that goes with it.'

Fifteen agents, according to the background briefing I'd had in London. Fifteen agents and their communication channels and cover construction and courier lines and cypher modes: a major intelligence coup, not to be contemplated. I could see their point.